


Consolation Prize

by unsettled



Series: Old Adages [7]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Banter, Clothing, Established Relationship, Fluffuary, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Suits, Teasing, quentin has a big dick universe, smugness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Tony is already running late and Quentin’s idea of ‘helping’... isn’t.(Prompt: Doing up each other's clothes)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Old Adages [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982093
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Fluffuary 2021





	Consolation Prize

“You know,” Tony says, “I could always bring you with me.” 

He tugs his pants up the rest of the way and glances over at Quentin, still completely naked and sprawled out on the bed, watching Tony. “I wouldn’t even have to give a reason,” he adds. “Just show up with you on my arm and let them gossip.”

Quentin doesn’t say anything for a moment, head propped up on his elbow. He’s been— not sulking, exactly, but definitely put out that he’s not on the guest list for this event. Or that Tony didn’t ask him to come before this. Or, well, both. Just not happy about it in that slightly disengaged way he gets sometimes. 

“No,” Quentin finally says while Tony’s shrugging into his shirt. “Not this time.” He beckons Tony over, sitting up when Tony’s before him. “It can wait until I really want to make a stir,” he says, catching the edges of Tony’s shirt. 

He does up the very bottom button and leans in, kissing just above Tony’s belly button. 

“Drama queen,” Tony says, and that gets him a flash of those eyes. He slides his fingers through Quentin’s hair and tugs. “Don’t start that; you’ve already made me late.”

“You’re always late,” Quentin says. Does up another button and kisses Tony again, a little higher. “It’d be more suspicious if you were on time. You should thank me.”  He gets another button done and his mouth on Tony’s chest, pressing his tongue along a line of scarring, where it feels almost muted. “Well?”

“I’m not going to thank you,” Tony says, but he can’t help being a little amused. He likes Quentin like this, more than a little full of himself but not completely serious about it. “Keep this up and I won’t even bring you something back.”

“Oh, is that what you were planning?” Quentin’s smirk is entirely too knowing, calling his bluff. “So,” Quentin says, his lips brushing the reactor, breath fogging it, “what was I going to get, then?” 

Tony can’t come up with any sort of good line, not with Quentin mouthing along the edge of the reactor. “Fuck,” he says. “I don’t know. What do you want?”

Quentin laughs, his fingers matching button to hole again and again, all the way up. “I’m sure,” kissing the top curve of the reactor, “I can come up,” mouth pressed at the hollow of Tony’s neck, “with something.” 

He stays there, setting his teeth to Tony’s skin and worrying at it, as his hands slide down Tony’s back. Lower, below the waist of Tony’s pants, squeezing his ass for a moment as he tucks in the tails of Tony’s shirt. Does the same in front, and Tony jerks into his hands when Quentin does up his fly. Goddammit, he’s half hard just from this and almost willing to just shove Quentin back into bed and call it a night. 

“Where’s your tie?” Quentin asks, pulling back. He does up the last button and pops Tony’s collar. 

“Quentin,” Tony says, dropping his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck.

“You’re getting ready to go out,” Quentin says. “Remember? I’m just helping,” and there’s a glint in his eyes that Tony recognizes. 

“Black tie,” Tony says. “Can’t get away with something flashy; well, I could, but I’m supposed—”

“I know how to tie one of those too,” Quentin says, and gives him a little push. “Go on.”

“Are you seriously telling me to fetch?”

Quentin smiles at him, really smiles, not some sort of smirk. “If I say yes,” he says, “will you bring it to me faster?”

It’s not— it’s not fair, the things Quentin does to him without even meaning to. 

When he turns back, Quentin pushed himself over to sit on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under him and his cock well on its way to fully hard. Tony swallows. “Now you’re just taunting me,” he says. 

Quentin takes the bow tie from him, and Tony has to lean forward a bit for him to fuss with it, his hand ending up on Quentin’s bare shoulder. “Am I?”

He’s surprisingly quick about tying it, smoothing down Tony’s collar in no time. “I’m already late,” Tony says. “Could be later. Could suck you off without getting a hair out of place.”

“Not with the way I’d want you to do that.”

Tony smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s fair. Here,” and drops his cufflinks in Quentin’s hand. Quentin looks at them, his eyebrows going up. 

“Aren’t you being good,” he murmurs. 

Not fucking fair. 

And it’s not fair the way Quentin kisses Tony’s wrist before he places the cufflink, the way he nuzzles the other, looking up at Tony all lazy and heavy lidded and tempting as hell. He doesn’t protest when Tony pulls him up the second he’s done that cufflink, tugging his head back and kissing him. 

Making out with Quentin like this, it’s hard to remember why he got out of bed in the first place, why he’s even contemplating leaving. He’s hard enough it aches; who cares about this stupid charity event thing after all. “Fuck it,” Tony says, because this is how it always goes. Quentin’s just too good at winding him up until Tony can’t keep saying ‘later’. 

“Oh, uhuh,” Quentin says, leaning back. 

“What?”

“I just did all this work,” and Quentin gestures at Tony. “You don’t want to undo all that, do you?”

Yes, Tony thinks. Sure. Why not? 

“That’s right,” Quentin says. “You don’t,” but his smile says he knows that’s not true. “Go on, Tony. Much longer and you’re going to be well past fashionably late.” 

Tony groans. “Fine,” he says. “When I get back,” he starts, grabbing his jacket, “I’m—”

When he looks over, Quentin’s leaning back on his elbow, free hand on his cock. “Are you?” he says, and Tony can’t remember what he was going to say. Quentin laughs. Fuck.

“Have fun!” Quentin calls after him. “You know what I’ll be doing.” 

It isn’t until he’s in the car on the way to the venue, trying and slightly failing at willing his hard on away, that he comes up with a decent response. He grabs his phone to text Quentin, remind him that he’s not the only one who can play games.

Tony never gets the chance. When he thumbs it open, there’s already a text from Quentin.

_ If you’re lucky, I might even be all open and ready for you when you get back. _

He wonders just how short he can cut this without hearing about it later. Or— or how long he can drag it out, keep Quentin ready and waiting for him. 

Either way, it’s his treat. 


End file.
